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I’m moving into my 34th year of anticipating fall. Inevitably, without any permission from me, the days move on-quickly.  And although my point is not that I am so very old, indulge me just for a minute.  A sampling of three recent experiences that have brought my attention to age:

First, the birthday card from my children last week included a proverb about gray hair, based, I will add, on their actual observation of the silver weaving through my brown.

Second, as we crossed the college campus last week for choir, my four ducks in a row behind me, I realized we were walking through Freshman Week.  Food, beach balls, inflatable slides,  and young, pink, new adults spread out like a new crop of awkward saplings.  I walked the campus as an invisible woman (I know I was non-existant because I didn’t even glance at people who were married with children when I was freshman). And yet the memories of my first week at college danced across my thoughts, rising with every sense of smell and taste and color. And then I did a little math to recall the year of those memories and I couldn’t help but think, “I’m so old!”

And a final, third reminder in this month of my birthday arrived through a sweet nurse that takes care of my Dad.

“I’m getting married in three weeks!” she announced with flushed cheeks.

“How old are you?” I asked after a few other comments.

“Twenty four,” she answered.  ”I’ve been living with my parents and now I have to go live with a boy!” She exclaimed with equal parts excitement and concern.

After, as I sat with my Dad, my mind traveled through the decade that stood between the nurse and myself.

That’s a lot of life, I thought. Lessons of love, losing and finding identity as a parent and wife, unexpected surgeries with our second child, the six years of caring for my Dad, becoming a teacher-that’s a lot of life and lot of journey.

Oh, I realize to anyone who’s older than me, I sound like a baby mewling.  But for now I can only talk about my thirty four years and more specifically the last ten or so.

I’m thankful for the wisdom gained through experience and it makes parenting our fourth child much less stressful.  But there is pain in knowing that I can’t go back and apply anything I’ve learned to the early years.  I have to accept all of the mistakes and the hurt I’ve lived and caused during the learning of the lessons.

But I still go there.

What if I had known more about God’s grace when my first born was two?  What if I had snuggled her more and dumped the books in the garbage?

What if I had known, in the early years of our second child, that each child would be different and therefore, need different parenting?

What if I had been less angry?

What if we had seen different doctors, asked different questions, been at the hospital more in the spring of 2010, could we have kept my Dad from disappearing before our eyes?

There are both gifts and pain in knowledge.

A few weeks ago I listened to an older friend.  A friend with a decade and a half added on to my 34 years.  A friend, who now in the peak years of teenage parenting, is learning the difficult lessons that she knows will help her parent child three and four differently but can do nothing to prevent the hard road that has begun with her eldest son.

I received her words as an early birthday gift.

“I don’t spend time second-guessing and wondering how I could have done things differently.  I’ve never struggled with that.  I know that almost every day of my life I’ve gotten up and given my very best to the day with what I had at the time.  And that’s enough.”

On the drive home from my Dad, the what-ifs fill my mind, louder than the radio meant for distraction.  And as I look at the treasure of my eldest daughter: beautful on the outside, filled with gems of love and God inside, I worry “what if I had….?”

On the good days I can stop myself and think:

On all of the days I was making mistakes and laying the ground for the wisdom I’ve gained, I was doing the best, always giving the most I had to give with what I had.  Yes, the effort was broken, because I am broken, but I was giving my best effort. And that’s enough.

All of the empty spaces I’ve left in my family are the ones that God will need to come in and fill, just as He’s doing in my own empty spaces.

On those other days, the almost days where I may have gotten out of bed but my heart, my mind, my prayers, my hope all stayed under the covers, I have real regrets and I made big mistakes.  So how do I answer to the days that I can’t say I tried my best?  I can only let God answer, the same answer He’s given me through friends, through my husband, through His word:

“There is now no condemnation for those who are  in Christ Jesus…” (Romans 8:1)

Do you feel the peace and grace trying to edge in?

Five days down, one day left of temporary single parenting.

I knew this might happen, but I was so busy it still caught me by surprise.

I’ve run out of paper plates.

It may be the turning point in our rather remarkable, un-horrible week.

Buying a large stack of paper discs sturdy enough to bear breakfast, lunch, and dinner was a very wise decision on my part, I must admit.  Five plates per meal, fifteen plates total per day.

Fifteen plates beautifully smeared with food and shoved in the garbage instead of my sink.  Environmental poison though they may be, I love those paper plates.  There are seasons that require paper plates.

Post baby delivery.

Because your the Mama and you say so.

Husband (who usually does the nightly kitchen job) has gone for six days.

I face the choice: to buy plates for the final day, or to allow the fifteen plates to accumulate and hope they won’t take me to a dark place.

So far (okay, after the first few rocky days), I’ve managed to stay in the light.

“Mommy I’m going to throw up!” cried my ten year old as the five of us entered Trader Joe’s, but it did not bring me down.

The croup and fever of said child did not break me.

As my son asked tonight for a snack at bedtime and upon receiving my answer called out, “I will die in my bed if I don’t eat!” I simple offered him my prayers and knew there was chocolate later (for me).

Surely I’ve learned an important lesson through the journey of these last five days.

Do the math in the store and buy enough plates.

I’m also out of paper towels.

The five of us walk confidently into the sanctuary.

After a week of practicing how to get the family somewhere early (hint: Vacation Bible School), we’ve made it on time. Even with Daddy out of town.

I stand for worship and Drummer boy climbs onto the chair so that his head is even with mine and his body fits into my left arm.  On my right Jellybean moves into the other open arm and Mookie, left with no side to take, grabs my hand instead.

“He is wonderful, He is glorious,
Clothed in righteousness, full of tenderness.”

Voices of all ages join together and my heart lands on the word tenderness.  I think back to the times that I’ve raised my voice (code phrase for yelled) or been impatient with the bickering this past week and again I feel the warm bodies pressed in from all directions. I’m in awe and thankful that they still desire to be with me much less really be with me skin and heart and all.

I begin to think of a nice blog post about God’s tenderness and mercy.

I also compose a few pretend conversations in my head that might occur after the service.

“What a sweet picture your family was this morning,” a friend behind us might lean forward and comment.

I’ll look surprised and moved, “We’ve had a quite a week, too.  Isn’t God merciful?”

(You might have noticed that I’ve paused in my worship.)

I’m a few sentences into my mental blog draft when I notice that my son has his finger in his nose with the hand that’s not holding me in a sweet hug.

“Joshua, don’t do that,” I whisper.

“I have to.”

“No you don’t.”

“I need a kleenex.”

I disengage from the girls embraces and we leave the front row and head down the long aisle, a rather tight smile issuing from my face as we see familiar faces in the pews.

He arms himself with toilet paper and we return to the front row, the return trip doesn’t require smiling because we only see the backsides of heads.

We take up our stance for worship and I look for some more words in the music that might remind of that tenderness I was so keen on a few minutes ago.

I’m distracted by the familiar nose-picking gesture, enhanced now with a long trail of toilet paper across my sons lap.  Every few minutes he removes it from his nose and looks at the excavation.

For my son’s sake, I should mention here that I forgot to give him his allergy medication before leaving the house and he has a very legitimate itchy, runny nose and a six year old amount of self-control.

The girls have noticed their brother’s particular struggle and they’ve created a distance between our side and their side. Snuggle time is over.

I’m absolutely sure that at least three families have a good view of the nose cleaning party so I try strategy number 1.

Distraction.

“Color in your sketch book, it will make the time go faster I promise,” I conjole.

He grunts a “no” and I pick up the sketchbook myself, thinking I’ll draw something that will lure him into my plan.

After a brief sketch time, I hand him the markers and pencil to fill in my design.

He hands them back to me and gestures for me to do my own coloring.

By this time the pastor is exhorting the congregation from the book of Luke but the name of the book is all I’ve gotten so far. Which makes me angrier because don’t I deserve to have a few minutes to hear this passage thank you very much.

“I need more toilet paper.”

We leave the front row again and I feel the eyes (I say feel, because I’m looking at the floor this time, not at faces) of criticism follow us down the length of the pew.

We return and I make a desperate grab for the bulletin, looking for the scripture and notes for the day.  The runny, itchy nose has moved into tremors down the boy’s arms and legs and he’s intermittedly flopping across my lap like a dead fish or putting toilet paper in his nose.

Thoughts from the mom’s behind me float forward as clear as if they’re appearing in print on my sermon notes.

“You shouldn’t have sat on the front row.  You’re family is so distracting.”

“Why doesn’t your son have better manners about his nose?”

“What a sweet, sweet picture,” one mom thinks, as she looks past us to the very composed family on our left.

Seeing that distraction is a fool’s game, I move on to quiet threats.

“If you don’t get that out of your nose and settled down you will not be going to your class when this is over,”

I whisper fiercely, knowing how much he loves his teachers, even as my hand gently rubs his arm to demonstrate that I’m a loving mom.

These scenarios repeat like a scratched cd until finally it’s time to past the collection plates and sing one last song.

I remember the touching blog about God’s tenderness that remains saved in my head from forty-five minutes ago.  Something like laughter, but not the funny kind, slips from my throat.  Not even a few minutes of peace in church, I rant inwardly.

I’m weighted down with condemnation and snotty toilet paper.  What happened to God’s tenderness and mercy that I wanted to give thanks for less than an hour ago?  Where is it now? This doesn’t feel merciful at all.

(Mercifully) I realize that I’ve been experiencing self-condemnation not God’s condemnation.  Even if some of the thoughts I imagined from other Mamas are real, that’s still not condemnation from the Lord.  I imagine running into Jesus as we exit the sanctuary and realize He’s already meeting me with mercy and grace.

Looking ahead to the rest of the day (day 3 of temporary single parenting), I see future acts of sin (mine and the kids) and future acts of grace (the Lord’s first and hopefully mine soon to follow).

“But you, Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.”

Psalm 86: 15

I’ve admitted before I’m no expert at summer.  We keep acquiring challenges to the “normal” summer experience.

Apparently they’ll find their summer anyway, because they are KIDS.

How easily the breakfast dishes, piles of unsorted school books, and house projects ease from their mind.

“When were there cabs and early cars at the same time?” a child interrupts my inner concerns about our summer that seems lonely to me.

“Um, cabs. Do you mean cars or wagons?”

“Wagons.”

“Early 1900.”

“Okay.”

And the learning room becomes 1906.

As I attend to their baby sister and pitter about some little chores, I can’t help but notice again how easily their ordinary world transforms into something new (or old, in the case of time travel)) and potentially exciting.

I look around and will the walls to open wide and reveal for me, too, a peak into another world-maybe something with sand and a really good book.

The walls remains stubbornly intact and I settle for a boost of hot chocolate.

Back in the early 1900s, it’s starting to rain.

And they run into it.

I lean toward them, hoping a little bit of their magic will splash my way.

It’s a night of feeling overwhelmed.

Of wondering about those care-free pool days that I hear about each summer.

Of stepping near the cliff that will only take me to self-pity and away from the word of truth that gives life.

I find myself again questioning God’s hand in suffering, and how to walk through these weeks with any measure of grace.

I thought of my pastor’s words, how there are times we need to be gently rebuked and reminded of the truth and promises of God’s word.  I needed someone to throw a shoe at me.

And then I thought about my daughter.

My extraordinary daughter.

The one we called mountain goat (the literal meaning of her name), princess, stubborn, and named after the girl who put a tent peg in a guy’s head (see the book of Judges).   The Lord gave her a name of beauty and strength and she’s demonstrated at least one of those attributes each day of her life.

(Just a brief note on Jellyfish.  She was born with a heart defect and underwent heart surgery when she was four days old. She was also missing a bone and finger on her left arm.  I don’t often describe her so specifically because it’s a very limited view of her as a person, but in this case it helps tell her story.)

Early on, as she learned to crawl with an arm cast and then walk with a cast, and then walk with a cast and hold about ten toys in her hands, we had a pretty good view of her determination.

When she learned to tie her shoes, ride a bike, rollerblade, and swim, my awe of this particular character trait enlarged.  It wasn’t in the moment of accomplishment, it was watching her in the process. Her eye on the goal, come what may.

In the last year she’s also fallen in love with God’s word, which has only expanded her beauty and determination.

On the before side of this last surgery I told friends she was going to go through it fighting, pushing forward, surprising us all.

And she did.

And as I look back over the past few weeks I realize I can take a few cues from her on how to walk through the next few weeks.

When she was scared, she asked me to pray.  I can ask people who care for me to pray for me.

When she was in pain, she breathed slowly, in and out, through the pain. She could have competed with the best of mamas in labor. I can ask God to help me endure the pain but not spend my time running to escape it.

When she needed peace and rest she listened to our church worship CD.  I can worship God despite my circumstances as He remains the same each day.

When she came home to face three weeks using her non-dominant (and structurally challenged) hand, she wrote, drew and ate, and climbed trees with that hand.  Let me add here that she’s also a perfectionist.  So normally she wouldn’t stand for wobbly letters and drawings, but her determination overtook her perfectionism.  I can keep walking forward instead of letting fear paralyze me.

When the physical therapist assigned homework, Jellyfish did twice the number of exercises without once needing a reminder.  I can be strong because He who made me has already given me everything I need for every good work.

And after a challenging session today, she told the therapist, “That was satisfying”.  I can move with God instead of against His hand. For “how much more should I submit to the father of our spirits and live.” (Hebrews 12:9)

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful.  Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”

-Hebrews 12:12 (The twelfth chapter of Hebrews is a great place to turn for encouragement and truth during a difficult trial.)

I knew the bickering was an inevitable fate.

As a homeschool family we’re home all the time together, so that’s not a new element for summer.

But now we’re at home together, with no goals or forward motion.

We have a cast on one child, so no pools.

We have a two year old which adds limitations that some of my friends with a five year old and up have left behind.

That means during the summer I often feel left behind.  And with too much time inside, and a couple of siblings who have a constant opinion about every movement or word uttered by another sibling, well, kaboom.

And kaboom for Mama!

By tuesday even kind words were leading to explosions.

Mookie is unhappy with her piece of art.  ”This just isn’t right!

Her sister approaches and I hold my breath since her instinct is usually to give specific insight of what would improve someone else’s art.

“I think it’s great,” she encouraged.

I let my breath out.

Mookie rolls her eyes and gives her sister the death stare, assuming that the compliment was only a cover for a hidden criticism.

Kaboom, I explode.

A few nights ago I was aimlessly wandering through blogland in an attempt to ignore the challenges that awaited me the next day, and I found a couple of weapons, well, wisdom, well, life jackets, that lifted me up for the rest of the week.

After the first minutes of exploring the blog Inspired to Action, I’d already decided that all of the encouragement I’d ever wanted to give to mamas had already been written, with more wisdom and more wit and more skill than I had in me, so I better just stop blogging and maybe take up a new hobby.  Something non-computer or writing related, such as fly fishing.

I’m so glad she is such a great writer and passionate mom because watching the video she’s recorded about motherhood and skimming her ebook about how to get a better start to my morning reminded me that my purpose as a mother is greater than just to survive.

I’d started to forget this week.

Some of the inspiring resources on her site that you need to check out:

• Her Video (start here if you’re having a bad mama day and then you’ll have a little renewed “umph” to print out her more practical ideas.
• A prayer calender for your children (that’s you praying for your children)
• A prayer calender for your husband
• A FREE e-book entitled Maximize Your Mornings-this is a very funny, encouraging book, not at all written in the style of an army drill sergeant Mama who might make you feel worse than better.
• Another FREE e-book entitled Mission Statements for Moms
• There’s even more.

In the same session of late night perusal, I found some new resources on Quiet Times for Kids.

• Check out their video blogs with tips on parenting.
• Go to their Free Printables Page to print a Yield Sign with Scripture designed to slow down sibling rivalry.
• Print out the blessing jar coupons to reward your children for yielding with their mouths, attitudes, and hearts.
• Buy their new Bible Study on the Armor of God and receive two dollars off (coupon code is “twodollarsoff”)

I’ve been going back to all of these resources over the past few days.  I’ve started to change my morning routine, waking up just a bit earlier in order to be ready to greet my kids.  We’ve also introduced the yield signs and the blessing jar starts monday.

Thank goodness for moms who share their wisdom and their imperfection.

Our family just took a terrific trip to Chicago, both a summer vacation and a distraction for our 8 year old from her gigantic cast and limited summer activities. I could tell you all of the fantastic parts of our trip, but it’s more fun to tell about the parts that my friend and I called “making memories”. Because without these moments it all would have seemed too easy right?

Instructions for Traveling long distance in the Car and Visiting a Big City

Traveling in the Car: Make sure your children have not taken a road trip in at least two years. That is plenty of time for the 6 year old to forget that there are distances further than the local library. “Are we there yet?” will start before you’ve crossed the county line, fifteen minutes into the four hour drive (part one of the two day trip). It helps that you yourself cannot stand riding in the car for hours, knocking your start level of patience down to  a 7.

How to stop at Cracker Barrel: Since you don’t take regular road trips, your children will experience their first trip to Cracker Barrel. Unknown to you, you’ve picked the location with the employee who’s personal agenda for the day will be to follow your children around the store. At first she’s polite and comments on objects your family should buy, twenty minutes later she’s very close and very quiet, eyes narrowed for a better view. The two year old picks up very cute, breakable, animal objects but lucky for you she’s distracted just in time with unwrapping a giant roll of smarties and depositing the large pink disc into her mouth. The security guard/biscuit maker missed this incident as she dealt with other newcomers, so you hurry to the counter to purchase the stolen candy. You get the kids outside finally and just as you settle into those cute rocking chairs, a bus from the juvenile detention center unloads onto the porch. You decide your Cracker Barrel experience is complete and head back on the road.

Arriving at Your Destination: Two days of traveling is finally drawing to a close as you look at the GPS and see 20 short miles remaining. A phone call from your friend reveals tornado sirens and her entire family is in the basement. You look up from your GPS to see a collage of lightning strikes, alive against a horizon that is now the color of imminent death. What can you do but keep driving? You arrive and your child with an arm cast gets inside without getting wet.  Your husband, who carries an amount of luggage equal to a small U Haul, is not so lucky.

Traveling on the Train: You leave the house without enough time to stop by the bank and get money for tickets. Frantically you borrow your children’s souvenir money (which is contained in cute girl scout wrist purses), which your husband holds in his lap until the train attendant comes by for your fare. The train attendant looks at the pretty wrist purses and then at your husband with pity and then with a wink says, “Your children are all under seven right?”. And off to the city you go.

Visting the Field Museum: You’re pretty sure that visiting a large museum with your two year old should be as much fun as going to Disney World with the same age child. You also feel the trip will be a success if you don’t lose any of the six children in your party. You strap your two year old to your back and only let her get down to refuel with snacks from the museum bakery. Four hours later you slide your toddler off your back, count the children, and call the trip a success. You climb into a taxi feeling relieved (your back does, at least) and settle in for the ride which will take three times as long as the cab to the museum, but you don’t know that yet. You enjoy a deep breath.

Traveling on the Train, the return trip: Congratulations, you’ve purchased tickets with your debit card at the end of your last train ride to avoid hocking your children’s souvenirs for travel money on the return trip. However, you’ve left an hour late from The Field Museum, taken a taxi is rush hour traffic and arrived just in time to run (all nine of you) to the train. The train starts moving as soon as you get the last child on, and then you proceed through one car after another (all nine of you) looking for empty seats. The electric doors will try to close on your children as you move into the next car, and the cars will sway frantically as you start to imagine a stunt from Indiana Jones (with all nine of you). “We’re making memories!” you shout at your friend who is 5 children and one car ahead. You walk past all of the weirdos and serious businessmen who look completely uninterested in moving their briefcase for your six year old to sit down. Eventually everyone gets seated. You only have one hour and one poopy diaper left to go.

Time to Go Home:  As a seasoned traveler (the past week has given you a confident sense of road experience) you climb in the van for a smoother trip home. You only have five hours to drive for leg one, and you anticipate the best. At 6:30 you arrive at your hotel to find a party in the parking lot of the hotel, one of the jovial gentleman bears a shirt which causes you to turn your head quickly. The hotel room doesn’t feel clean and you can’t imagine waking up to the hangover party people in the breakfast room and another day of traveling tomorrow.

Finally: You confer with your husband and agree to drive on home. General logic suggests your children will fall asleep and you’ll arrive home near midnight. But you laugh because you know better. All four stay awake until you’re thirty miles from home.

But still, you see the dark silhouettes of the Tennessee hills and you’re glad to be home. And you’re glad for all the memories that traveled with you.

I don’t talk about Mr. Darcy much on this blog.  Writing through the eyes of a mama, I’m usually looking through a pinhole of my perspective.  But I wouldn’t be home to be the mama without his hard work.  I wouldn’t stay sane as a mama without his understanding and patience.  And I would pass out each night without his constant help and ability to laugh when I’d rather get grumpy.  In him, God gave me (and the kids) so much more that I could have dreamed to ask for-as Mr. Darcy and as The Daddy.

But I’ll let the poem do the talking.

Daddy Is
a poem written by us

Daddy is a swing set that we climb on and he’s full of fun,

Daddy is a hibernating bear, he sleeps and snores undisturbed,

Daddy is as crazy as the ocean’s waves,

Daddy loves fruit crisp like monkeys love bananas,

Daddy likes mommy as much as he likes crisp (and more),

Daddy likes birds as much as birds like our birdfeeder,

Daddy likes baking as much as squirrels like nuts,

Daddy is a piano, full of clear sounds and tunes,

Daddy is a timeline, full of facts,

Daddy is as fun as the beach,

Daddy is a bald eagle, fast and dangerous, chasing Joshua,

Daddy likes camels like Christopher Columbus liked to travel the seas,

Daddy likes grandma as much as he likes crisp,

Daddy can tickle as much as a fish can swim,

Daddy is a book, smart and full of knowledge,

Daddy is a red-winged blackbird, taking care of his family.

Father’s Day, 2011

It’s the unknown factors that make the waiting period before an event (particularly a dreaded event) so torturous.  The imagination is open wide to all scenarios.  I always hope, as I’m sure you do, that once reality arrives it will be so much better than the hypothetical.

For several years we’ve postponed elective surgery of Jellybean’s hand until, after much thought and prayer, it became clear that we needed to do the surgery.

In the weeks leading up to the event, I couldn’t really plan for post-surgery, because so many of the variables remained unknown.  Would she be in much pain? How would she be able to eat and do daily tasks with her left hand (which has undergone past reconstructive surgeries)? What, if any, summer activities would we be able to participate in? I certainly didn’t linger on how I would take care of her extra needs and the normal needs of her siblings.

Now the unknown has become known, and unfortunately the last five days have fit perfectly into my pre-surgery imagined scenario (the worse case version).

Here is a collage of moments, those I hope to remember about my brave daughter, those that make me want to cry, those that helped us laugh, and few that I’d welcome into the well of lost memories.

The best moment: When the surgeon came out to speak to us and we knew she had come through surgery. Any mom or dad who has placed their child into the hands of a surgeon would understand that moment.

The moment to make us laugh and then cry: Seeing her incredibly huge cast (starting just below her shoulder and extending down her arm and enclosing her entire hand in a bulbous peak). It was an unanticipated problem, hilarious in a “take your breathe away with surprise and horror”. And then less so when they told us that the ridiculous thing was correct.  And heartbreaking as she saw through sleepy eyes something so much more than what she feared.

The moment when causing someone pain in order to get her pain relieved seemed like a reasonable idea to consider: She cried, “I can’t bear it, mommy”. Seven hours home from the hospital and we got in the car to head to the E.R. Two hours later she still cried in pain before anyone gave her medicine. Three doses of morhpine after that before she was finally out of pain.  Anger at a new level.

One of the (many)moments I watched her with awe: At the E.R., the third time they tried for an I.V., after trying twice in the foot, still experiencing the pain from her arm because the medicine she’s yet to get is going to come through the i.v.. She didn’t cry, she breathed in and out deeply, and listened to her music. The second time we checked into the E.R.(five minutes after we were discharged from the E.R. because she was crying in pain by the time we got to the car) and another I.V. was needed. Again no crying, just a lot of breathing (she even started to appreciate that the I.V meant less needles in the long run and that it delivered good medicine).

When I most wanted to give a wake-up call to the nurses: Before surgery, when my daughter who does not like to be treated like a baby, was spoken to like an infant(she’s 8 and half) and offered bubbles as a distraction. “Look how this lights up your finger,” the nurse cooed as she took her vitals. If Jellybean hadn’t been so scared, she would have growled at them.

One of moments when we laughed: “I wish we could take this medicine home with us, Mommy”, she said calmly and peacefully after many rounds of morphine.

When I remembered to be thankful: Five hours into the E.R. visit gone bad, and I remembered my original fear that she wouldn’t even be with us after the surgery, and I thought, “I’ll take this, I’m just glad to be with her, right here.”

The sweet part: Jellybean is my most independent, my least talkative about heart matters, the one who can go days without really seeming to need her mama. With all of the kids tucked away with friends and family, I got to be her constant comforter and she wanted me to be just that. She told me I should be a nurse and she never wanted me to be away for any time. It’s already changed because the rest of the crew is back in the house and I’m sliced into smaller quarter mamas, but I’m so thankful I could comfort her when she needed it.

Another laughing moment: When she said Froggy’s shirt would be her sleeping mask (like in surgery) and she wrapped the no longer pink shirt of her very favorite animal over her nose and proceeded to “breathe in” the smelly comfort only a long time stuffed friend can give.

When Netflix instant play became the ultimate pain medicine: Despite the lack of t.v. and video love we have in our family, I am firmly convinced that the ready appearance of the Backyardigans and the Cosby show with the push of a button saved us further trips back to the E.R.(and gave mama and daddy a few hours of sleep). In the middle of the night, when it’s still an hour and half before she can have more pain medicine, it’s the only thing that can take her focus completely away from her hand. And for now, that is a beautiful thing.

The best laughing moment: when I walked in to find her introducing Froggy to Mr. Cast.

There are many tough things about today, and the next few weeks, and the unknown of how her hand will be when the results of the surgery are revealed when Mr. Cast is removed.  An endless list of moments, some of which are better remembered than lived.

Right now we’re one tired family and all we know is that we have one very brave girl.  Of course, that was the one known before we ever entered the hospital.

Last year we seemed to misplace summer.

This year I’m itching all over for it.

Each summer has been encased in it’s own set of circumstances-pregnancies, babies, caring for an elderly parent-I’m still not sure exactly what I’m looking for this summer.  I have some fears about loneliness and an endless lack of shape to our day(which can end up as bored sibling fighting). But all the same-

Bring it on.

Good-bye to stacks of school curriculum and attempting to constantly motivate 4 small people, bring on the days of less mama-corrections and directions and more mama smiling and sitting on the floor.

Good-bye to structured learning, bring on the family summer bookstore and nature sketching with brand-new sketchbooks and pencils(shhh, don’t tell the kids).

Good-bye to heavy soups and flavorless grocery store produce, bring on the weekly csa box brimming with the ingredients for yet-to-be-discovered recipes, happy salads, and pasta with fresh tomatoes.

Good-bye “go on, you need some fresh air” says mama to the reluctant children, bring on strawberry(tart) kissed cheeks, bathings suits, and the smell of suntan lotion.

Good-bye predictable days, bring on days of adventure on land, on pool, on travel.

Good-bye limitations, bring on the possibilities.